


my life, my strength, and my speech

by SincereMercy



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Cold Weather, Fade to Black, Frostbite, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Knights Templar, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Sexuality, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-17 20:01:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29477370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SincereMercy/pseuds/SincereMercy
Summary: On a winter trip through the Alps, Combeferre and Enjolras brave the cold together and reinvent themselves.
Relationships: Combeferre/Enjolras (Les Misérables)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 15





	my life, my strength, and my speech

"I told you we should have stayed in Le Lauzet-Ubaye," Combeferre whined.

"And lose half our daylight? I don't think so. We've so little of it as it is this time of year." 

"Yet we are nowhere _near_ Gap, it is almost pitch dark, and with the snow picking up again we will not be able to see a finger in front of our faces within an hour."

"For a man born of the Alps," said Enjolras, "you have remarkably little tolerance for the cold."

"It is not about my feeling cold. I'm serious, Michel, it's almost night time and we're leagues away from the nearest town. It's not safe— not for me, or for you, or even the horses."

One of the animals in question snorted agreeably. Enjolras, leading it in front by the reins, paused to let Combeferre catch up, and laid his hand gently on his shoulder. "Peace," he said softly. "I know, I have pushed you a little too far today. There is a farmhouse just past this curve where we can apply for shelter. I made a note of it the last time we traveled to Gap, in better conditions."

This appeased Combeferre not a little, but he still grumbled. "That is if they will consent to house a pair of strange men in the middle of the night."

Yet with Enjolras, the matter was never in question. Combeferre took the lead when they came to the farmer's door, imagining they would take more kindly to a native of the area than to a foreigner. But though they were suspicious of Combeferre, a single look at Enjolras's beautiful, guileless face— cheeks all red from the cold— and they were ushered inside for a hot meal before their hosts allowed them to retire to the barn. Combeferre couldn't fault them; they were far from the only ones enchanted by Enjolras.

While Enjolras set about securing the horses in the barn, untacking and covering them with blankets, Combeferre busied himself with settling in the human component of their party. He arranged the hay in the loft into something of a bed for them both and then unrolled a pair of blankets on top. By the time Enjolras climbed into the loft, Combeferre was already half undressed and nestled comfortably into the pile of hay.

As Enjolras followed suit, Combeferre lifted the blanket for him and stifled a squeak when he felt cold hands against the bare skin of his arm. “You are cold!”

“It is a good thing you are here to warm my hay for me, I suppose,” said Enjolras, pressing closer even as Combeferre shivered. "Come here, poor man. I'm sorry." Enjolras wrapped him in a tight embrace, which Combeferre reciprocated, and they stayed like that for a long moment until gradually he adjusted. "Better?"

"Mm. It's not exactly how I imagined our journey together." He must have sounded more put out than he meant to, for Enjolras looked genuinely affected.

"No? But we _are_ together, and more alone with each other than we have been in— years, perhaps. There is never any true privacy in Paris; in Barcelonnette, we are always being looked in on by your mother or sister or a servant. Here it's only us. And I daresay this hay is warmer and more comfortable than some beds I've slept in."

Enjolras made some excellent points. Combeferre leaned in to kiss him softly and Enjolras returned the gesture. A second, a third kiss and Combeferre tucked a lock of Enjolras's hair behind his ears, sought out and found his bare skin under his shirt, began to turn him over onto his back, and then—

With an abrupt laugh, Enjolras pulled away. "You've cheered up!" 

Feeling a little hot around his cheeks, Combeferre gave Enjolras another quick peck and then settled down next to him again. "You were right. Besides, I've always thought there was something romantic about barns and hay."

Though his eyes were alight with amusement, Enjolras refrained from laughing at Combeferre. "Might that have something to do with the peasant boys you grew up admiring?"

"You know all my secrets." Combeferre's tone was mild, warm. He adjusted himself so that Enjolras could lay his head on his shoulder and felt a quiet sense of satisfaction when he did so right away. Traveling together like this, they could almost pretend they were the only two in the world.

"Do you forgive me?" Enjolras's voice had grown a little more serious and subdued.

"For what?"

"For pushing you, today, when you would rather have stopped."

Combeferre smiled. "Of course. We are safe, and warm, and comfortable, are we not? That is all I was concerned about. All is well, and I am happy."

"I’m happy, too." Enjolras yawned, nestling himself close against Combeferre, and quickly fell asleep. That was very like him; Enjolras did not tend to waste time either in falling asleep or in waking up.

Combeferre, holding him tight, did not hold out much longer either.

* * *

Sleeping in barns became almost something of a habit. Of course, when there was an inn available, they would pay for rooms. But it was so much more tempting to push on, to make use of the few extra hours they had, even if it meant spending the night outside the boundaries of a town, sheltered by a stranger.

It was more liberating, too. This would not be the first or last time they'd travel this road; Combeferre remembered the inns his mother instructed him to stay in on his route to Paris, years ago now. The innkeepers might recognise him— might know his family, his brother, might ask questions. Combeferre was a careful man. He always purchased separate rooms and bid Enjolras goodnight as a friend.

They would never see any of the farmers they met along the way again, not if they didn't want to, and none of them knew a thing about his family. They could be freer with one another. They might not be saving any money, as Enjolras always compensated their hosts generously, but they could go to bed together without anyone asking questions. It was cold; without a proper bed or a fireplace, it was natural to seek out the warmth of another person. And, as Enjolras had pointed out the first night, rarely did they have more privacy.

After a week spent with his brother and four nephews in Grenoble, privacy was something Combeferre sorely missed. It was on the second night of their return trip, then, that Combeferre eagerly suggested they try their luck at an inviting farmhouse relatively early in the evening, instead of pushing on to the next village.

Enjolras was more than agreeable. "Ah, yes— we stayed there on our way here, they were very pleasant folks and I'm sure they'll be happy to hear how we got on."

For a moment, Combeferre nearly changed his mind. The reminder that they had stayed before made him less, not more willing. Still, they had been kind on the way in, had left them alone once they were settled in the barn, and— perhaps most decisively— Enjolras was already leading the way. Combeferre followed.

As they had arrived before dark, there was plenty of time for supper and conversation. Combeferre did not partake much, but his absence was not missed a great deal. Enjolras, always charming, had their hosts captivated by a discussion of how the political battleground had seemed to open up since the summer of 1830. Mathey, the farmer, apparently had a brother who had been a carbonarist, and was eager to tell them about him. It was, Combeferre had to admit, a pleasant meal among a warm and welcoming atmosphere.

Nevertheless he was intensely relieved when Enjolras at last begged off and they made their way to the barn. The horses had already been secured prior to their eating dinner, which left them with little else to do than settle down themselves. A pile of straw nearby one of the stalls made an ideal spot. Almost the moment they were alone, Combeferre seized Enjolras by the arm and kissed him fiercely, directing him towards the straw. 

Enjolras laughed, as he often did when Combeferre was amorous, and shook his head. “Come, you will be the one complaining in a moment if we do not fetch the blankets first.” With this he could not argue; Combeferre allowed a small diversion for the purpose of fetching their blankets and undressing down to their braces and shirtsleeves. 

“I’ve missed you terribly,” he said once they were nestled in the straw together. Combeferre kissed him on the lips, then on the neck as he began unbuttoning Enjolras’s shirt and braces.

“I’ve been with you all day.” Enjolras’s hands, steady and certain, found their way against the bare skin of his chest once they’d unbuttoned his shirt.

“With me, yet just out of reach. I have been obliged to follow behind you, watching your thighs on the horse in front of me, and imagine…”

“Imagine what?” Enjolras shifted, allowing Combeferre to pull his shirt overhead before returning the gesture. “What do you want?”

“You.” When this answer was plainly insufficient, he elaborated. “Keep me warm. I have not yet decided on the particulars.”

Enjolras’s smile, full of amused fondness, drew him in as easily as did his hands on his hips. “My dear man. Come here.”

Though he tried, at first, to keep himself quiet through force of habit more than conscious decision, Combeferre soon yielded to his natural impulses. He was in the throes of loving abandon when he heard the barn door slam and turned, horrorstruck, to find the figure of a man standing in the doorway.

For a moment, it seemed that time stopped. Combeferre could see the man shouting, but he could not hear him. He noticed the thick wool blanket the farmer had been carrying, which had now fallen onto the floor of the barn. A single word pierced the fog of his mind: “ _Pederast_!”

He saw the farmer move to grab a pitchfork that was leaning against the corner of the barn, heard him shout, “Leave that boy alone!” Combeferre felt sick.

“He’s not a child.” The words came out weakly, as if he lacked the ability to defend himself in any stronger terms. His body’s reaction, equally useless, was to make sure Enjolras was covered in their blankets, to hide him away— but not only was it useless, it was futile, because Enjolras was squeezing his shoulder and standing up in between them with his arms outstretched towards the farmer, naked in the same way a lion would be. That is to say, it did not affect his pride or his self-possession, if he even noticed it at all. 

Nakedness was all that Combeferre noticed about himself, and he felt all the more ashamed for it. He leapt to his feet and began to dress himself haphazardly at the same time as Enjolras tried to make peace.

“He is my dear friend and companion, and he was not hurting me,” Enjolras was saying, reasonably, as if such men were inclined to hear reason. “There is no offense here, I assure you.”

“Oh, but there is.” The farmer waved his pitchfork, and Combeferre tugged on his waistcoat and frock coat without bothering to button them, shoving everything else into the horses’ saddlebags. “Against God, against nature, against _me_. It’s disgusting, eating our food, taking advantage of decent folks' hospitality and sneaking around behind our backs to—” He spat on the ground. “Get out. Get yourselves gone and never come back.” 

“We’re going!” Combeferre cried. “Leave us to dress, please, we won’t bother you anymore.” He’d gathered Enjolras’s clothing in his arms and tried to hand him his shirt, but he was waved away; Enjolras would not break eye contact with the farmer, who was brandishing his pitchfork as if to stave Combeferre off. “See, we’re going.” 

“Quickly now, ready the horses and let’s go.” Enjolras still did not look at him when he spoke, but he pushed him gently away, and Combeferre obeyed, shoving Enjolras’s clothes into a bag so that he might dress as soon as it was safe. “We’re on our way now, no harm done.” 

As the farmer lowered his weapon ever so slightly, Enjolras backed away and grabbed one of the horses by the reins, leading it out of the barn. Combeferre followed with the other horse, until it occurred to him that he’d forgotten to grab Enjolras’s boots: the fur-lined boots he’d got him for Christmas. He dropped his horse’s reins and dived back after them.

It took no more than a couple seconds to grab the boots and tuck them under his arm, but when he turned around Enjolras was between him and the farmer again, was wresting the pitchfork out of the man’s arms. He smacked him on the head with the back of the pitchfork, and with a sickening crack the farmer fell. Combeferre’s stomach churned, and he stumbled for a moment, torn between the impulse to run and the impulse to check on the farmer, until Enjolras shoved him onwards. He grabbed the blanket from the ground, wrapped it around Enjolras’s shoulders, and then they were both running with the horses, Enjolras covered only in a blanket and barefoot in the snow. 

Combeferre was not sure for how long they ran like that, though he was aware of the last of the dusk light fading into darkness until he could no longer see the path in front of him clearly, even with the moonlight reflecting off of the snow. They certainly couldn't see the farm behind them any more. Enjolras, who he had been following almost mindlessly until that point, stopped suddenly and turned to face Combeferre. "Help me."

Right away, Combeferre swept him into a tight embrace. Enjolras's teeth were chattering and he was shivering violently, and the urgency of getting him dressed again impressed itself upon Combeferre. He pulled away for just a moment, rummaging around in the saddlebags to dig out the bundle of clothing he'd shoved inside earlier, and tried to hand the shirt over to Enjolras again. "Here, quick as you can now."

But Enjolras only shook his head and repeated again, "Help me." Perhaps it was all he could do to keep the blanket clutched around himself. How stupid he'd been, to allow Enjolras to run naked and barefoot in midwinter. Yet until now, when his strength seemed all at once to have failed him, Enjolras had acted as if it made no difference. 

It was a struggle to dress Enjolras under the circumstances. As he pulled the blanket back, he felt little warmth from Enjolras’s skin, felt him trembling underneath his touch. It took him some time to find the front of the shirt without any light to see by, and once he did it was difficult to fit Enjolras’s arms into the armholes. This part Enjolras assisted with, thankfully. Trousers came next, Combeferre supporting Enjolras’s weight as he helped him into them. In their haste to undress, they had not properly unfastened their braces, which came in handy now as he simply pulled the straps over Enjolras’s shoulders. His fingers felt numb, making it an extraordinary feat to button up the tiny buttons on the placket of Enjolras’s shirt, and Combeferre swore under his breath a number of times before he’d finally finished it. Combeferre was just putting on Enjolras’s waistcoat when he spoke again. "Have you a light? There is a lantern attached to one of the horses."

Combeferre didn't know how he'd forgotten it; it was the same lantern they'd been carrying with them for the entire trip. He hurried to light it, relieved when the match took easily, and then returned his focus to dressing Enjolras. "Foot up," he said, after fetching the boots, but Enjolras stumbled when he lifted his foot, and Combeferre had to tell him to brace himself against the horse in order to keep him steady enough to manage getting his feet into them.

Once Enjolras was dressed, missing only a stocking and a cravat, Combeferre turned his attention to his own clothing, doing up all the buttons he had not had time for earlier and closing his coat around himself. The horses' girdles, too, needed adjusting. His steady surgeon’s hands were trembling wildly— he realised he’d left his gloves in the barn, and shuddered at the thought of going back to get them— so he warmed his fingers with his breath to unstiffen them enough for the task. At last he folded the blanket around Enjolras to make a cloak for him.

Enjolras shivered under his touch. "Why did you go back?" he asked.

The question startled him; Combeferre had not yet allowed himself to begin asking _why_ anything. "What? Your boots—"

There was a furrow in Enjolras's brow, as if Combeferre had answered him with some great puzzle, and he stared down at the boots on his feet with a frown on his face. "Oh." That was all he said. 

Combeferre hugged his stiff body close, redirected his attention. "Michel, we have to keep going. We have to find somewhere warm. Can you do that? Everything else can come later."

Enjolras didn't answer in words, but Combeferre felt him press closer, felt him nodding his head against his shoulder. From the lion he'd been moments ago, Enjolras now seemed so much smaller; that frightened Combeferre almost more than any of the events that had just come to pass.

If he had been capable of nothing useful earlier, now he could at least guide Enjolras to safety. "Follow me, let's go." Combeferre led him to his horse, grasped Enjolras by the leg, and hoisted him up so that he could climb into the saddle. After securing the lantern to his own horse, Combeferre mounted up on his own and led them onwards. The dim light of the lantern provided just enough for him to find the path ahead, as well as a beacon for Enjolras to follow.

Before long they approached another farm, and seeing the outline of the building sent palpable relief through Combeferre's body, as if the idea of getting warm brought it into being. But although he slowed his horse with the intent of turning off towards the farm, Enjolras behind him made no such overtures.

"Please keep going."

Combeferre was trembling wildly with the cold, and he was sure Enjolras fared no better. The path ahead was dark. He wanted nothing more than to be surrounded by four walls, cut off from the wind, and to hold Enjolras tight. "Michel…"

"Keep going." This time it was not a request.

"Where is the next village?"

"I don't know." Though it wasn't his native territory, Enjolras always seemed to have an exhaustive mental map of the roads they'd travelled, of how long it would take them to reach one village or another at any given time. Without that, Combeferre himself had little idea of where they were, except he remembered that had they pushed themselves earlier in the evening, he'd expected to reach the village in time to rent a room at a respectable inn. That was why he'd chosen to stop early instead.

He took a deep breath and mustered his horse onwards. "We'll keep going."

Why hadn't Enjolras wanted to stop? Combeferre had enough time to consider the question as they rode on. Did he imagine the farmer chasing after them, warning his neighbours about the sort of filth that was seeking shelter that night? Did he fear that, if the man were injured, his family might ask their neighbours for help, and discover the culprits? Was he dead, and Enjolras knew that they'd come seeking his murderers?

Was he dead? Or was he dying, and Combeferre could have saved him if he'd stayed to check? Had Enjolras killed him? Had Enjolras killed him _on purpose_?

He wanted to speak, if only to hear Enjolras’s voice behind him and know that he was all right, but for a long time he couldn’t find any appropriate words. “I am so sorry,” he settled on, finally.

Behind him, Enjolras sniffed. “Why?”

It was his fault, what had happened. He had long ago promised to himself that he would never expose Enjolras to any scandal. Now he had done so. Now, because of it, a man was perhaps dead or dying. “I— I was not discreet.”

“It was our choice,” said Enjolras. He sounded the words out carefully. “Not yours. It was not— you were not attacking me like he said.”

Even the reminder of the accusation chilled Combeferre’s blood, whatever the reality of the situation. They both lapsed into silence again, and Combeferre concentrated on finding the road ahead. 

It was hard to make time take shape, but Combeferre estimated they rode for at least half an hour before they came to anything that could be called civilization. The little houses clustered together were a welcome sight, but even so he felt flustered, bringing his horse to a stop and simply looking between them. He did not know where to seek shelter, feared that he would somehow make the wrong choice— feared that Enjolras would again say ‘keep going’ and they would die somewhere out in the cold and dark. 

“Where should we ask?” He left the choice up to Enjolras after all.

“Anywhere.” Perhaps sensing his reluctance, Enjolras pointed, and Combeferre followed the gesture. “There.” There was still a faint firelight from inside the house he pointed at. A wise choice. 

For a moment, Combeferre still hesitated. It had always been Enjolras who had the best luck with their strangers, had always been Enjolras who they’d take one look at and welcome inside. But now Enjolras was shaking his head, and Combeferre gathered himself despite his terror, dismounting his horse and approaching to knock at the door.

There was only silence in answer at first. He raised his fist to knock again, but then paused when he heard a pair of footsteps. All of a sudden the door swung abruptly open and Combeferre was face-to-face with a rifle. He startled and jumped backwards, suddenly and irrationally terrified that whoever was wielding it somehow knew him, knew who he was, what they’d done. 

“We’re travelers!” He raised his hands, prayed that this was a reasonable man, even as his mind raced. “Please, we’re lost and we need somewhere to stay, please help.” His voice had raised an octave or so, and Combeferre realized belatedly that he was not breathing. He forced himself to exhale. 

The man behind the rifle lowered his weapon and peered out past him, at the figure of Enjolras, still on his horse. He frowned. Combeferre supposed he could not see Enjolras well enough for his magic to take effect. “Let me see your passport.”

It took Combeferre a while to find it, digging through his pockets with stiff, trembling fingers. At last he seized on the paper and presented it to their potential host. “I was visiting my brother and his family in Grenoble, and now I want to get home to my mother.” It was the truth, but the man in front of him frowned still more deeply, squinting a little at the page; perhaps he couldn’t read it well in the dark, but Combeferre knew it was still good. A wild part of him wanted to scream at the man, seeing that he still looked skeptical, but instead Combeferre took a deep breath and counted to ten in his head.

“Who is your friend?”

They both turned to look at Enjolras at the same time, who was only just then slowly dismounting from his horse. “He is my sister’s fiancé,” said Combeferre, a fast lie, but it didn’t matter because as Enjolras approached into the light, they both saw how frighteningly pale he was.

“By God, what’s happened to him?”

Combeferre wanted to ask the same question, turned away from the man and put an arm around Enjolras. “We got lost, and it is cold, and he is suffering from it, now will you _please_ —”

He didn’t need to finish asking. “Yes, yes, of course,” said their host, waving them inside. “Come and sit by the fire.” 

Enjolras was already leaning on him heavily, and Combeferre was cautious as he directed him to sit and warm himself. The dread was thick in the pit of his stomach, and earnestly grateful as he was for the warmth that now seemed to seep physically into his body, he wanted nothing more than for them to be alone. Their host introduced himself by the name of Robert as he put on a kettle and a bit of gruel by the fireplace; Combeferre forced himself to remember the name because, for once, he could not count on Enjolras doing it. 

Evidently his preoccupation was noticed, or at least Robert was still concerned over Enjolras, for after a moment he paused. “Do you need a doctor for him?”

“I am a doctor. Thank you, though. I will make sure he is well; the warmth will do much for him. We’re so grateful for your hospitality.” 

There was an odd shift in the atmosphere between them, with Robert drawing himself up a bit more as if to show him respect. Combeferre felt embarrassed, wanted to tell him he didn’t deserve it, not after leaving the farmer earlier. “Oh,” said Robert. “Good thing, that.”

Enjolras shifted against him, stiff and agitated, and murmured low in his ear, “Ask him for some privacy.”

“That being said, could you give us a few minutes? I need to take a look at him, make sure nothing’s amiss.” 

“To be sure, Doctor.” Robert went to fetch his greatcoat. “I’ll just take care of the horses while you do.” Tension hung in the air almost palpably while Combeferre watched him ready himself and go, until the moment when they were alone and he seized upon Enjolras.

“What is wrong? Tell me, I know it’s not just cold.” It could be shock, it could be any number of things, but as Combeferre looked into Enjolras’s eyes, he was relieved to find him still looking alert and sensible.

Enjolras held out his arm. “I need you to look at me. Like you told him you would.” His arm? For a moment, Combeferre was not sure what he ought to do with it. Then, dread gripping him again, he pulled the blanket-cloak away from Enjolras, carefully unbuttoned and then removed his coat.

As Combeferre pulled off the sleeve of Enjolras’s coat, he found to his surprise that the sleeve below was dark red, soaked in blood. The horror of it washed over him all at once: Enjolras was pale; Enjolras had lost a lot of blood; Enjolras had been injured and bleeding for the entirety of their ride, and he had not realized it. 

He knew their host would return shortly with their bags in tow— including the bag with Combeferre’s medical supplies— and he would have questions if he saw Enjolras covered in blood in his living room. But if Combeferre had possibly let a man die out of his instinct for prudence, he would not do the same for Enjolras. He needed to get Enjolras into the bedroom to complete his examination. He felt along the arm until Enjolras closed his eyes and winced in pain; at that point, Combeferre tore his cravat from his own neck and wrapped it around the injury. 

“Pressure, now. Press hard as you can against it. I’ll see to it as soon as I can, I promise you.” 

When Enjolras obeyed, Combeferre took his coat and draped it loosely over his shoulder to cover the arm. He wrapped his own arm around Enjolras’s body, which no longer felt entirely cold and rigid to the touch, and helped him to his feet. As pleasant as the fire was, he needed more than simple warmth now. It was a great presumption to barge into a man’s bedroom uninvited. It was one he was willing to make under the circumstances.

Combeferre helped Enjolras to the bedroom and sat him on top of the bed. “Wait here,” he said, more in an attempt to break the dreadful quiet between them than because he actually thought Enjolras might try to go anywhere. He returned to the main room, to the fireplace, and took the kettle away from it. The water was warm, now, but not boiling. Perfect. 

As he placed the kettle on the floor of the bedroom, Combeferre heard the front door and then he hurried out to see Robert carrying their bags, just as he’d hoped. Bless the man; Combeferre was almost inclined to take back any unfavorable thoughts he’d had about the hospitality of men.

Still, Robert looked askance seeing Combeferre coming out of his bedroom and Enjolras nowhere to be found. This was fair. “I beg your pardon for putting you out,” he said, and he did feel guilty at the thought that they had stolen the man’s bed in the middle of the night. “My friend is, however, very poorly, and he is in desperate need of a bed to rest in while I administer to him.” He drew upon all the doctor’s authority he’d been so embarrassed of a moment earlier; he did not ask permission. “You will, of course, be handsomely compensated for the trouble.” 

Robert simply sighed, set his bags down, and began to hang up his coat. “I suppose it’s warm enough out here, if you’re paying for the firewood, Doctor—"

“Combeferre.” How strange that he’d gone this long without introducing himself.

“Doctor Combeferre.” Robert looked at him with a critical eye. “Paris makes fools out of our boys, it seems. I hope your friend pulls through and makes it home to see your sister.”

Something about the look on his face as well as the mention of Combeferre’s earlier lie sent another wave of dread through his body, and his mouth began speaking before his brain willed it to. “Yes, it is her birthday in a few days, and we’d like to get him home in time.”

“Ah,” said Robert, “that must be why you were pushing yourselves so late.”

“Yes.” Lies and more lies. Combeferre quelled his panic and took a deep breath. “Well, thank you and goodnight, Monsieur Robert.” He grabbed a pair of their bags and hurried back into the bedroom.

Enjolras had let the coat fall from his shoulder, exposing by candlelight the dark red that stained the sleeve of his shirt. Combeferre himself felt inclined to weep, a hysterical impulse that he quickly pushed aside.

"Let me take a look at you at last." Combeferre took Enjolras's hand away from his arm, kissed his palm, and quickly set about untying his cravat and removing his bloodstained shirt. Combeferre's fingers were still stiff from the frost, clumsier than he'd like them to be, but he made quick work of it nonetheless. He dipped his cravat in the warm water and cleaned Enjolras's arm as best he could— well enough to see the extent of the injury by the time his cravat was completely ruined. It was not as bad as he'd feared. Enjolras had lost too much blood on the journey here, but he would not be losing more of it. The bleeding had slowed enough even in the short time Enjolras had been applying pressure that Combeferre was satisfied he would not need stitching. 

As he re-bandaged the arm, this time with a proper bandage, Combeferre took a long look at Enjolras's stoic, pale face, and asked the question whose answer he feared most. "What happened?"

Enjolras took a breath. Combeferre saw him shiver. "When you went back for my boots, it made him angry. He meant to hurt you. Maybe just to prove he was serious, but— A pitchfork is a dangerous weapon even in the hands of a man like that. I intervened, grabbed it, but in the process he grazed my arm. Then I hit him. He fell."

The look on Enjolras's face was one that Combeferre understood. Even within the context of self-defence, it was a different thing to strike at an old peasant on an otherwise-peaceful night than to fell an enemy of the Republic during wartime. All war may be between brothers, but this was not a war at all. 

"You didn't mean to do him any real harm." Combeferre could say that confidently now, as he finished tying off Enjolras's bandage. 

"No, but I may have. I don't even know if he is alive or not. And if not— well, I killed a man over a pair of boots."

That hurt. "Or over my life." Combeferre knelt, turned his attention to those very boots, and carefully removed them from Enjolras's wet feet. He peeled the single stocking off of Enjolras's right foot and then examined his toes. Pale. Cold to the touch, albeit still soft. "Do you feel anything when I touch them?"

When Combeferre looked up again, Enjolras was shaking his head. “They’re quite numb.” 

Enjolras had run barefoot in the snow for some time, and by the time he’d put the boots on his feet, there was only so much they could do for his cold, wet feet. He might lose his toes now, no matter what Combeferre had risked to fetch his boots. “I will do what I can.” 

Combeferre stood and glanced around the bedroom, found the shaving basin, and returned to kneel before Enjolras. He filled the basin with the warm water from the kettle, submerging his hand to test the temperature. His entire body shivered violently and he felt a burning, tingling sensation in his fingers, at last penetrating through their stiffness. Still, he craved more of it. “God, more than anything I want a warm bath,” he said, looking up at Enjolras with a rueful smile, one he was gratified to see was returned. 

“Now, this might feel unpleasant at first.” He took Enjolras’s feet in hand and guided them gently into the basin. Enjolras uttered a sharp cry which then died away into a hiss, and Combeferre looked up sympathetically. Stoic as Enjolras was, it was rare to hear him so viscerally in pain. Looking for a way to comfort him without moving from his position, Combeferre leaned closer and placed a kiss on his knee. "Poor man."

Enjolras only shook his head and took a breath to gather himself. "I'm alright. Thank you." A moment later, he asked, "Could I lose them? My toes?" He was never inclined to spare the difficult questions.

"It's impossible for me to know this early."

He nodded. "If I don't, it will be thanks to you and the boots you gave me." The way he said it sounded like a concession, and it eased to some extent the sting of his earlier words.

"You don't regret my fetching them, then?" Combeferre rubbed Enjolras's leg comfortingly, but he was asking for reassurance more than he was giving it.

As ever, Enjolras answered truthfully. "It is hard to regret, or not regret, anything when I don't know the consequences. It is even harder to regret _someone else's_ actions for him." Combeferre sighed, but evidently Enjolras understood him, for he felt a cool hand run through his hair and scratch pleasantly at his scalp. "But I will say I am grateful. I would have been sorry to lose them, all practical concerns aside."

That made Combeferre smile. "I confess I would have been sorry for you to lose them, too. I'm very fond of them."

"And at first you told me boots were too practical a gift, that you wanted to give me something more sentimental." Enjolras, too, was giving him a warm smile.

"You knew better, that I could be sentimental about anything."

Enjolras's laugh sounded as if it were cracking the ice in his throat, and Combeferre felt warm all over. 

After that, he was much more at ease with the silence between them. Enjolras's fingers played idly with his hair, and when Combeferre chanced to look up, there was a gentle smile on his face, the kind that was reserved for him alone. 

When Enjolras's feet were red and warm, Combeferre removed them from the basin, drying them gently with Robert's shaving towel. He gathered some lint from his medical bag, placing it between Enjolras's toes to keep them separated and then gently wrapping both of his feet in bandages. At last, then, he undressed both Enjolras and himself and climbed into bed with him, pulling the covers up to their shoulders and wrapping him in a close embrace.

"You aren't complaining that I'm cold this time," said Enjolras, and Combeferre laughed under his breath.

"No, this time I am just glad you're here, so that I can warm you up." And be warmed himself. Combeferre already felt better now, with the blanket covering his body, even as he shivered more.

"And I’m glad _you’re_ here. I might have lost you over— over something trivial. I was angry at you, just about, for putting me in a position where that was possible. Maybe I still am, even though I'm grateful, too. Grateful for your care, but more for your life." Combeferre could feel Enjolras’s warm breath on his face as he spoke. He wanted to curl up small enough that it would cover the whole of his body.

Instead he pressed close enough to kiss Enjolras's cheek. "You saved my life, but you're the one who is suffering for it. Your poor arm. You've no idea how it frightened me to see you pale as death.” His color looked a bit better now, not as red as Combeferre would like, but with some rest he would improve. “Do you think you can sleep? It will help you to recover.” If it were up to him, they would not leave for a week, or however long it would take to be sure that Enjolras would not lose his toes.

“I can try.” Enjolras sighed against Combeferre’s cheek, tucked himself into his shoulder. They were both deeply exhausted, but it was not easy for Combeferre to leave behind his fear of what had happened— and what might yet happen— in order to sleep. Enjolras must have felt similarly, for they both lay awake long hours, Combeferre soothed by-and-by as Enjolras idly ran his fingers in circles over his skin. 

* * *

Combeferre awoke abruptly to a knock at the door and hissed; the daylight streamed from the window directly into his eyes. Enjolras lay beside him, looking as out of sorts as Combeferre felt. For a moment, he could not remember where he was. This was not his childhood bed, nor was it the guest room at Silvère’s home. 

“I beg your pardon, Doctor.” It was Robert on the other side of the door, and Combeferre remembered instantly where and why they were. His heart froze. If Robert let himself in, he’d see the two of them together, the evidence of Enjolras's injury. He might even have heard the news of two fugitive travelers. To throw a shirt on and answer while still undressed seemed perilously close to betraying their intimacy. Yet even the delay was suspicious.

“Just a moment, please!” He swore under his breath as he climbed out of bed, shoved Enjolras’s bloody shirt into a bag and quickly pulled on one of his own shirts. Having made sure Enjolras was sufficiently covered in bed, Combeferre opened the door to the bedroom to see Robert standing outside.

“Beg pardon,” said Robert again, “but you said it is your sister’s birthday soon, and if you are to get her fiancé to her in time, you’d best be on your way.” He had a good memory for Combeferre’s lies, but this was clearly only a pretense for what he really meant, which was that hospitality for a stranger extended only so far, and they had all but used up their share of his good will. 

Combeferre felt embarrassed, but embarrassment was a small price to pay for Enjolras’s well-being. “Yes, of course. Thank you, we’ll be out of your hair as soon as we can.” He closed the door again and turned around to see Enjolras sitting up in bed with a frown on his face.

“He wants us gone.” 

“Yes.” 

There was a quiet between them as Combeferre began at least to put on his stockings, trousers, and braces. Enjolras peeled back the blankets and examined his bandaged feet while Combeferre dug through their bags and found a clean shirt for him to wear. As he approached Enjolras again, he watched him flex one of his feet and saw a flicker of pain pass over his face.

"Will I be fit to walk? To ride?" Enjolras took the shirt from Combeferre and pulled it on overhead. 

“That is very unlikely. I will take a look at you, but I don’t think I’ll want you walking at all, let alone a full day of travel. Above all we must avoid letting your feet freeze again, which means, when we go, it will be no further than the nearest town, and the nearest inn.” It was not as far as he'd like to be from the farmer's home if news of what had happened did spread, but the danger of losing Enjolras's feet now seemed the greater worry.

Combeferre set his medical bag on the bed and began unraveling the bandages he’d put on Enjolras’s feet the night before. 

“To travel even half an hour without using my feet seems like a difficult task.” 

"Yes. That is the problem." 

With Enjolras's feet free of their bandages, Combeferre examined them again. His toes were almost purple, and the skin was just beginning to blister. The last thing he wanted to do was to move them at all. 

"Perhaps…" He began tentatively, cut himself off, and continued only after raising his head to see Enjolras silently encouraging him. "Perhaps we could stay, if not here, find someone more amenable to a more long-term lodger. Perhaps—"

"It's not sensible." Enjolras's voice was terribly gentle, and he beckoned Combeferre closer, pressed a kiss to his forehead. Enjolras's lips, at least, were soft and warm. "People will talk. Our host will hear, and wonder what we failed to tell him. Look at me?"

Combeferre did. The sight of Enjolras fully present, calm and in control of all his faculties, soothed him.

"I will manage the ride. You will take excellent care of me when we get there. And we will finally be safe. Alright?"

"Alright." Finally be safe. When Enjolras said it, as when he promised anything, it felt almost tangible. But as much as he desperately wished for it, Combeferre struggled to believe that he would ever truly feel safe again, that he wouldn't remember the farmer accusing him of doing violence to Enjolras the next time they were together. "Alright, if you can tell me how you will manage the ride."

“Behind you. Like the Knights Templar.”

Combeferre could not help but laugh. There was a brightness in Enjolras's eyes, a color to his cheeks, and a warm, amused smile on his lips that cheered Combeferre immensely. "Very well, the idea has a certain appeal. We'll lead your horse alongside?"

Enjolras nodded. "She leads well from the ground. It should be manageable, especially for a short walk."

He wrapped Enjolras's feet in new bandages and helped him to dress. It was an easier task now in the light of day, with a warm and receptive body, than it had been the night before, with Enjolras cold and stiff before him. Combeferre knelt on the floor and slipped Enjolras's feet into his boots as gently as possible. Then he stood and kissed him quickly. "I'll prepare the horses and return as soon as I can."

When Combeferre counted out two francs and paid Robert without attempting to negotiate the price, some of the tension between them seemed to ease. "Wish your sister a happy birthday from me," he said, "and take better care next time. Is your friend looking any better?"

"Oh," said Combeferre, touched by the unexpectedly sincere expression of concern. "He'll be all right, don't worry. I just need to try to keep him off his feet."

Robert helped him prepare their luggage, too, with all the bags on one horse and the other entirely unburdened. If he found it a funny picture, Combeferre carrying Enjolras in his arms and helping him into the saddle, he did not laugh, but waved them off with more good wishes. Perhaps he'd misjudged Robert after all, allowed his own fear of persecution and discovery to color his interactions with a man who only meant him well. Perhaps, if he'd asked, Robert would have allowed them to stay a little longer. 

As they made their way out of the village at a slow pace, Enjolras behind him sighed against his neck. "I will be glad to put more distance between us and that ghastly farm."

Of course, there was that, too. "Do you really suppose they might come after us?" Logically, there was no reason Enjolras should know any better than Combeferre himself did— yet he would believe Enjolras's impulse over his own.

"I think the sooner we can blend in with any other set of travelers, the better. Still— it's already mid-afternoon. Part of me, the worse part of me, is inclined to take that as confirmation, to assure myself that if he were dead, the village would have heard it by now, there would be people about discussing the… the murder."

"It was not murder, whether he is dead or not." When Enjolras didn't answer, Combeferre pressed somewhere else. "The worse part of you?"

"The part of me that made you run off with me instead of checking on him. The part of me that says he is alive as long as I don't know he is dead."

Combeferre shook his head. "I won't allow you to take all the blame for your own actions, whatever came of them, and I _certainly_ won't allow you to take the blame for mine."

Enjolras's arms squeezed tightly around his waist, and Combeferre felt his head rest gently against his back. 

"Michel?"

"Yes?" The word came out slightly muffled.

"You are no murderer. Whatever happened, it was not murder. I am profoundly grateful to you for saving my life."

Enjolras held him no less tightly, but Combeferre could feel him relax against his body. "Thank you. And you are no pederast. We are something else."

"Something else?" Combeferre smiled to himself. "Knights Templar, perhaps?"

"Be serious," Enjolras complained, and that made Combeferre laugh.

"But I am! No, I am." He touched Enjolras's hand lightly with one of his own, and then placed it back on the horse's rein. "Many of them _were_ like us, you know. Some people say even the symbol you referenced, two men on one horse, is emblematic of that."

"And aren't those people being ridiculous and crude?"

"Maybe, but even if they are, they're less wrong than you seem to think. One man succoring his comrade. One man accepting another as his equal, his co-rider. And isn't that what we are? Don't we succor one another? Aren't I your equal and second? Haven't we bound ourselves to one another in every way?"

Enjolras pressed himself closer, and Combeferre felt the strength of his arms around him, holding him securely. "Yes, we have."

Combeferre felt Enjolras's breath against the tip of his ear, and his cheeks warmed of their own volition. "Well, those men before us, in the Templars— their love for each other wasn't _separate_ from that. It was bound up in those vows, in their camaraderie, in their chastity, even, and in their devotion to something broader."

"You've convinced me." Enjolras's voice was gentle and affectionate. "That is just how I love you."

Combeferre no longer felt the cold. "And I love you."

The rest of their short journey was quiet, but companionably so. The feeling of Enjolras's body pressed against his back, his arms around Combeferre's stomach, filled him with a sense of safety and security. There was a certain boldness to it, too; necessity allowed certain intimacies he would never have dared under ordinary circumstances. He began to wonder if they might not ride like this all the time. 

Yet he was all too keenly aware of Enjolras's physical exhaustion, of the way he sagged against his back, and knew that all the fondness in the world would not keep his feet safe from harm. He therefore did not allow himself to drag out his own enjoyment for any longer than necessary. When they arrived in the charming little town of La Mure, Combeferre did not waste time looking for somewhere more discreet, but brought Enjolras straight to the inn he was familiar with, the one he had stayed in numerous times now— the one that he and Enjolras, on the way up, had stayed in together, in separate rooms. He purchased a single room now and carried Enjolras up to bed, another once-unimaginable intimacy.

It took almost another half hour to settle the horses, to collect all their bags, to carry them into the bedroom, and to undress them both out of their traveling clothes, to wash, and to dress in something more suitable for resting in. Combeferre knelt to examine Enjolras's toes again, still purplish but as soft and warm as he could have hoped them to be.

"You're none the worse for wear, I think," Combeferre said, relieved. 

"Am I?" Enjolras beckoned him closer, and Combeferre sat on the bed, pulling him into an embrace and breathing him in.

"You tell me. How are you?" 

There was a pause as Enjolras appeared to think about the question, and then he lay on his back on the bed, looking upwards at something Combeferre could not see. "All right, I think," he said, sounding perhaps a little surprised at his own words. "I hope he isn't dead. I even _think_ he isn't dead. But I… I am at peace with my own actions, whether or not he is dead, knowing I was defending you."

Combeferre lay down beside Enjolras, pulling the blanket over his body. "It sounds silly, but I am almost more upset thinking what we will say when I go back home. It was _awful_ , what happened, and we'll be laid up here for some time, and you are clearly injured as a result of it. But I can't go home and tell my mother how awful it was. We will have to come up with some stupid lie to explain it, and I hate that."

But Enjolras shook his head, turning and placing a hand in Combeferre's thick hair. "We won't lie," he said softly. "I won't. We will give them a version of the truth that they can understand. Like your Templar emblem and its different meanings." He smiled. "Another part we'll keep to ourselves. Not because it's shameful, but because it belongs to us alone."

Their foreheads met gently, and Combeferre placed a hand on Enjolras's cheek. "I like that. A version of the truth."

"But tell me— how do you _know_ that, about the Templars?"

"Well, I read about it." Combeferre kissed his nose. "And while one must not place too much faith in anything said under the circumstances, there are certain elements that appear again and again."

"Such as?"

Combeferre studied Enjolras. The look in his eyes was slightly guarded, but he was not asking casually; he was seeking something. "Shall I show you?" Combeferre asked in an almost whisper.

Enjolras simply nodded, looking vulnerable.

"There are special kisses. On the lips." He drew Enjolras close and kissed him sweetly, but not quite chastely. 

"On the navel."

He bent his head, uncovering Enjolras's body, and kissed his navel, letting his tongue brush against his soft stomach. Enjolras shivered below him, placing his hand on Combeferre's back.

"On the base of the spine."

Combeferre turned Enjolras over gently, finding him responsive to his touch. He cupped the soft cheeks of his bottom with both hands as he bent his head again and kissed Enjolras at his tailbone, just above his buttocks. 

"Oh," whispered Enjolras, shivering again. He turned his head to the side, allowing Combeferre to see that his cheek was flushed with color. "Just like that?"

"Well …" Combeferre paused, sparing a single glance at the door to their room. It was locked, unlike the barn door had been. They were as safe as they could ever reasonably be expected to be.

He refused to let anyone take this from them, refused to continue looking over his shoulder when his attention should be on the man in front of him.

"Well, perhaps not quite." Enjolras, below him, made a curious sound. Combeferre smiled. "You see, the 'base of the spine', in context, is more likely a euphemism for the part just below it."

Combeferre bent his head again.

* * *

When they were finished, Combeferre lay comfortably beside Enjolras and rested his head against his chest to listen to his heartbeat. The normally slow thump now thrummed in the aftermath of their excitement, but even as Combeferre counted the beats, they began to relax their pace. Enjolras pulled the blanket up to Combeferre’s shoulders and wrapped his arms around him, humming contentedly. 

“How do you feel?” Combeferre lifted his head enough to look into Enjolras’s cool, clear eyes.

There was no answer at first; Enjolras seemed to consider the question, to allow himself time to return to earth. “Rather extraordinary,” he said, with a deep breath. “Your creativity always manages to surprise me.”

A laugh rumbled out of Combeferre’s chest. “You’ll remember it was not me that came up with it.” He traced circles in the skin on Enjolras’s side. “I worried, before, that I might feel afraid when I’m with you. Afraid of being caught again. But that isn’t what I feel.”

Enjolras shook his head. “Nor I. I feel safer. Gratified that you won’t shy from me after what happened.”

“I never will.”

Enjolras touched Combeferre’s cheek and lowered himself to kiss him, soft and sweet. “And I have never loved you more than I do now.”

Tangled together, safe and warm and once again with the impression that he and Enjolras were the only two men in the world, Combeferre lay down his head and dozed.


End file.
